


femina vocatio torneamentum

by mnemocury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, BAMF Harry Potter, Because I can, Betrayal, Blood, Blushing Draco Malfoy, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Bullying, Chamber of Secrets, Cuddles, Dark Harry, Dark Magic, Dark vs. Light Bigotry, Depressed Harry Potter, Depression, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gore, Gray Harry, Grey Harry, Harry knows all, Hermione Granger Bashing, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Light Magic, M/M, Mineta Minoru Dies, Not Canon Compliant, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Pining Draco Malfoy, Protective Slytherins, Realistic Tournament, Ron Weasley Bashing, Sad Harry Potter, Severitus, Sirius Black Dies, Slash, Slytherins adopt Harry, Soft Draco Malfoy, The Tournament gets ugly that’s why, Touch-Starved Harry Potter, Tsundere Draco Malfoy, Wizard Politics, all i want is harry to kick ass and eat fluff, bcuz he’s a cute sad bean, because fuck that’s cute, but he’s a bigoted gryffindor and he’s got to go, but maybe it’s because he takes his head out of his Light bigoted arse, draco apologizes at some point, draco might be ooc, draco’s supposedly platonic cuddles, harry isn’t trans if that’s what y’all are thinking, harry’s supposed to be an oblivious fuck but he still knows, have to protect my snakes, i add tags as i remember them, i gave y’all a fluff teaser at the beginning but idk how i’m gonna write this, i hate ron like i hate mineta, i like angst but i also hate it, i try tho, if only i could yeet him into the sun, im so cruel, im sorry, im sry bean it’s true, it doesn’t matter that this is a harry potter fic, its because fluff is too cute and i hate it when they fight, it’s because it’s au and i changed something, like a lot, maybe smut idk, need some more crying material for harry, not at first tho, nothing has been planned, rowling i wish you made the story more realistic, the angst and depression is there because it’s realistic, the depression is the only angst, this fic touches some stuff, this might suck ngl, transphobic insults, um hahaha, wait harry might be ooc too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemocury/pseuds/mnemocury
Summary: “I thought I could do it alone,” Harry said weakly, not caring about the harshness of which his Potions teacher is interrogating him.“Why...would you think that?” the usually cold and collected dour man felt his throat close as he asked, looking down at the bloodless teenager, pale as he laid on the infirmary bed. Harry choked out a harsh laugh.“I’m always alone. And this year proved it.”





	femina vocatio torneamentum

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first HP fanfic I’ve ever _posted_ , so forgive me if it sucks. You shall strike me down with lightning if I abandon this work...
> 
> Anyway, when I wrote the beginning of this chapter, I felt like it was a bit more realistic than canon. I’m pretty sure Harry didn’t have friends when he was younger— _at all_ , and he was definitely neglected and abused. So, it always made me wonder why Harry never reacted as badly as he could have as a victim of abuse. So if Harry doesn’t quite act like _Harry_ ; 1. He’s depressed and 2. I haven’t read the series in a year... _fanfics don’t offer much insight on his personality_ , and I don’t feel like combing through the series...
> 
> This _is_ an AU, so if characters act a little off...you guys know what my excuse is.
> 
> Please read the tags! I know they might be more annoying to read for some of you but they may have tags that you may warn you of what’s in here. Some of the tags like “ _transphobic insults_ ,” only last the beginning “arc” you could say of the story. The gore and blood only occurs during the Tournamant of the story, so just be warned! The rest of the story is just fluff and angst, sooo...

The staccato of Harry's heartbeat rattled against his ribcage stutteringly as he hazily went through his day.

Wake up.

Take a shower.

Get dressed

Eat Breakfast.

Go to classes.

Eat Lunch.

Finish classes.

Eat dinner.

But there was something _different_ this time. Something that made everything he did that much _hollower_ and _empty_.

Ah.

It's because he's alone.

When he was younger he always knew that he'd be alone—the Dursley's wouldn't settle for anything other than his own isolation, but when his friends proved that _wrong_ and _then_ when they _confirmed_ his relatives words and _denied_ him _entirely_ because of something he couldn't help, the idea began to solidify.

They wouldn't listen. And that hurt.

────────

It was dark.

He laid there, looking up at the canopy of his bed, the warm red silk draping over his bed, tightly closed with a sticking charm. With each moment, Harry took in a pained, meager breath. It was the night of the day the Champions of the tournament were chosen, and the reactions were harsh and unrelenting and Harry _understood_ why. What he didn't understand was why Ron and Hermione _didn't believe him_. He knew it was impossible to get the whole school to believe him, and it may be at least a bit of a stretch for his whole house to believe him, he didn't even know most of his housemates and even then most of his yearmates in his House were more acquaintances than anything. He thought that his friends would believe him, and Professor McGonagall— _and definitely Professor Dumbledore_...but then what went wrong?

Why is he alone?

Harry twisted in his bed, folding into himself as he brought his knees to his chest and burrowing in between in a rare— _rare_ show of vulnerability. The last time he felt this vulnerable was the Dursley's, when he was _8_ , and even then he didn't feel like he was going to shatter if he moved an inch.

He just didn't _understand_. He knew that Ron's family wasn't well off, but he made sure that he wasn't throwing around his money so that he doesn't make his friend uncomfortable, so then why? Why does Ron think he _wants_ any of this? That his words are just excuses and not explanations from a friend? Does that not mean anything?

Was his friend always this vindictive?

As he listened to the hateful words he shared with his dorm mates, Harry felt confused and _angry_ —at himself, at his friends, and at whoever put _his bloody name in the chalice_.

"...he _never_ listens! I'm glad I even have the chance to tell people now, it's a good thing he got to the chalice!"

"I don't know, mate..." Seamus said hesitantly. "You saw how he reacted when his name was chosen. He _looked_..." he trailed off, sounding uncertain.

"Like he _saw bloody_ you-know-who!" Dean piped up a little farther away, and some of the hurt in his chest lessened at their words. Ron made an indignant sound before Neville joined in on the conversation.

"I'm pretty sure Harry isn't like that," the pudgy boy said meekly a few beds away from him.

"Well I'd bloody well know what my mate is like! He kept dragging _me_ along, and he threatened me with his " _Boy-Who-Lived_ ," title if I told anyone, rubbing everything in my face!" the redhead said hotly before silence permeated the room, and Harry struggled not to let out a pained sob. What he was saying wasn't true, he knew that Ron enjoyed their..." _adventures_ ," more than _he_ did, but he never forced him to come along with him. They were friends, wasn't it normal for them to do everything together?

"Is Harry awake? What if he heard us?" Dean asked tentatively, his tone sour.

"Don't bother. He always puts up silencing wards so he doesn't have to bother with anyone in the dorm, and if he doesn't have them up, then he would've already started blasting us all," Ron said, voice not at all remorseful for his streaming lies. "If he is listening to us right now, the git will know that if he sits with us during breakfast, everyone will know what a lying _prat_ he is, and if he doesn't, they'll find out he's a _coward_."

"Isn't that a little harsh...?" Seamus cried, voice tinged with confusion.

"Seamus, shut _up_ ," Dean spat and Sean audibly snapped his mouth shut with a click Harry could hear. "Ron probably knows Harry more than we do, other than Hermione. It's not hard to find fakers like Ron says Harry is, and it wouldn't be a surprise because he _is_ the Boy-Who-Lived. Who knows what sort of childhood he had, all pampered like a prince?"

Harry couldn't breathe.

"Yeah...you're right," Sean said slowly, as if testing out the words.

"'Course we're right!" Ron said, a grin in his voice.

Harry couldn't _breathe_.

He didn't go to breakfast that morning.

It didn't really matter either way, but he didn't want the entirety of the school staring at him as if he was some kind of _stain_. He couldn't handle Ron's vindictive jealousy or Hermione's mindless disappointment—she just didn't _listen_ , and he had never realized until then how she sounded so _sure_ of herself, as if anything coming from Harry's mouth was wrong. She was just so _disappointed_ in him for cheating—it was as if she forgot the past three years of friendship and regular " _Incidents_ ," that always seem to happen to Harry. None of that mattered in front of her authoritarian dogma.

So he didn't go to breakfast. He didn't go anywhere _remotely_ public, hiding in alcoves when he could, hiding away in the dorm in his bed, and only went out for classes.

It was only two days since the revealing of the Champions that he was breaking apart from the seams.

He was unstable. At one moment he felt fragile, as if one insult would break him— _"You're hair is ugly, Potter,"_ to feeling caged and _furious_ enough to lash out at anyone like a wild animal. He never did, thankfully, but the time between his breaks where his classes were _wasn't_ helping.

"Potter!" a voice drawled behind him called out to Harry on the way to Charms with Professor Flitwick, and he _couldn't_ , just _couldn't_ deal with Malfoy right now. He felt as if a _word_ would make him start bawling his eyes out, and he didn't _need_ that to happen, at _all_. Not during a time when the whole school's against him, not when his friends are against him, and not when Malfoy _is right in front of him_ , who could take any reaction out from him against him— _"Look, Potter's regretting his choices, bawling his eyes out because he's **scared**_ _!_ "

No, he didn't need that.

So he steeled himself, cooled his expression, and turned around to see Malfoy sneering disdainfully at him—alone, surprisingly, but he couldn't think too much about it because half of his mind is focusing on holding in his emotions, and the other is waiting for the new barb Malfoy dishes out for him today.

" _What_ , Malfoy?" Harry said sharply, eyes glaring at the platinum blonde in front of him. He discreetly looked around, thanking whatever goddesses may exist in life that this corridor was mostly abandoned and that it'd be easy to lose Malfoy this way.

"Oh? Is something wrong, _Ms._ Potter? Bad day today?" Malfoy asked with mock politeness, and that was _all_ it took to tell Harry he had to _go_ , so as quick as a whip he flipped out his wand and cast a Jelly-Legs jinx on the pointy-nosed git—he didn't have _time_ to deflect Malfoy—after shooting behind him a short, vehement " _No,_ " while tearing down the hallway behind him. He knew the jinx wouldn't stop Malfoy for long, not long at all, but the confusing twists and turns of the castle would be enough to throw him off his track, or at least, he hoped so.

With frantic movements, he ripped open a tapestry to a decently sized alcove he frequented, diving in with shaking hands and gasping breaths, trying in vain to rein in the bubbling sobs pressuring his lungs, but soon his choking attempts were for nought because the soft, pain filled sounds of his sobs ripped free from his throat and it was the only thing he could do as salty tears pooled from his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, curled up on the dusty floor of the alcove. Time seemed to go on forever, and when his hoarse voice began to die down, a fresh wave of pain engulfed him as Ron's insults repeated over and over in his head. His insults weren't even up to par with _Malfoy_ , but when confronted with Malfoy's insults he only feels the way someone usually feels towards insults—insulted. But with _Ron_...they _hurt_. You don't know what you have until you lose it, but this time, he didn't _do_ anything, and he wasn't the cause of the loss. He couldn't _fix_ anything about this, but being alone when he wasn't before made everything that much darker—and lonely.

When Harry felt cold, clammy hands card through his hair, he stopped short, causing the hands to freeze as well. But through the daze of tear-stained cheeks and burning throats, he nuzzled into the shaking hands, uncurling his body and unconsciously moving towards the source of those hands, finding silky robes and a human warmth, making him burrow into the robes. Harry supposed listlessly that this should be extremely weird and strange—who would hug _Harry Potter_ at this moment in time, nonetheless during an impossibly vulnerable moment? But his dazed mind didn't think as he laid his head on the hard, warm silky surface and curled himself tightly around it, causing the impossibly clammy hands to become even clammier, but as a formless amount of time passed, the hands stopped shaking and the sweat receded as they slowly combed through his hair, deftly messaging his scalp and soothing the stressed raven-haired boy into a shallow form of slumber—not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. Just enough for Harry to remember those cold fingers in his hair as he tightened the death grip on those silky robes, not daring to let go.

When Harry woke up, the alcove was dark with the moonlight shining through a window making itself known through the cracks of the tapestry, a contented feeling thrumming through his being, and Harry dared himself a small smile. There was a gaping hole still swirling inside his chest, but the warmth in his core was enough to distract him from it.

Harry didn't quite see Malfoy again for a while.

***

The tittering of harsh whispers roiled over the weight on Harry's shoulders, the dull pain not quite blocking out the broil of anger simmering in the pit of his stomach, making him want to lash out at everyone, the only inane moment of his life he's ever felt this violent except for at the Dursley's—when he stewed in cold fury in the recess of his cupboard, but here at Hogwarts he never even got that _angry_ towards _Malfoy_. But all of the events of the past few weeks, the whispers, the stinging hexes, the mocking and the teasing. No one to share his pain with, and now he doesn't think he'd ever want to if they came back to him. He doesn't want to think that he'd break under their pleading gazes to come back to them.

The soft sounds of his worn shoes scuffing the treaded stone was the quiet backdrop he focused on behind the not-so-subtle _kind_ words his schoolmates sent his way—forcing him to steel himself for the umpteenth time this week, being Friday. On autopilot, his feet led him down the dank, cold hallways of the dungeons to the front door of the Potions class, a class Harry frankly wasn't looked towards, but couldn't care as much as he used to. The rage in his stomach, accumulated from over the years having no safe outlet, was threatening to over bubble, a dangerous mixture in his heart from every pained breath he took. The fury broiled, but the sadness and grief pooled behind his eyes, the tears burning behind his eyes where headaches usually lived, causing some of his mostly dormant impulsiveness (saved only for life-saving adventures) wanting to go tearing down into the Forbidden Forest, not caring about the consequences, whether or not he would live didn't matter.

Stopping just before the door of the Potions classroom, Harry grimaced slightly, his lips twisting and dull, green lifeless eyes narrowing as his nose scrunched with his lips—he needed to get himself _together_. It didn't matter what he was feeling right now. Not right now. His face blanked. What someone would usually see on Harry Potter's face was a ghost no where to be seen, as he clicked open the door, shooting straight for the back of the Gryffindor row of the seats, the scratching of the quills against creamy parchment stopping so beady eyes could follow his movements, judging him top to bottom. The cool but soothing green lights of the cold dungeon classroom glowed over nearby surfaces, the lamp to Harry's left illuminating his paler than usual face, sun kissed skin turning eerily pale over the course of only a few weeks. Visible bags under his eyes were purpling over every second of lost sleep caused by nightmares and insomnia filled nights, his normally shining, mirthful eyes clouded over and dull. His hair instead of being wild and untamed was lanky and limp—still untamed but less endearing than its other counterpart is. He mechanically started to pull out his materials for the class, the dour Potions teacher at the front of the classroom waiting for the rest of his students. Harry ignored the glare boring into his ducked head, and started mulling over formless ideas in his head. His head felt soft and cottony as he tried to trudge through his thoughts, causing him to raise a pale hand to his temples and rubbing the spots there, knowing that his less-than-usual behavior will set Snape off. He _knew_ he wouldn't be able to focus on the class, he was barely getting by as it is during classes and he didn't even _know_ how he was managing that—but at the same time, he didn't _care_...

The harsh quiet of the class ensued when Snape started his class, billowing black robes with his pooling black eyes daring anyone to speak against him. The white chalk crumbling itself against the blackboard wrote out the instructions to the Wit-Sharpening potion as he spoke. "Some of you will _benefit_ from today's potion: Wit-Sharpening Potion. Perhaps you should _begin_ immediately," he drawled, and watched his students, mostly the Gryffindors like a hawk as they scrambled to get the ingredients, no one daring to speak because seeing from the slight downturned grimace of Snape's face, he wasn't in a great mood. And Snape in a good mood would still garner Gryffindor a loss of at least 70 points. Harry idly wondered if his bad mood has anything to do with him. It probably does.

He looked down, staring at the scarab beetles and ginger roots and armadillo bile assorted on his desk. With a sigh, he started to grind down the beetles using a pestle and chopped the ginger roots with a silver knife, prepping the ingredients before starting in with the ginger roots, the simmering potion turning lime green. The slightly bubbling concoction turned blue once he added in the armadillo bile, and sprinkling the scarab beetle dust over the sheen surface dyed it red. Harry slightly looked up, glancing around the room in the corner of his eyes before turning back to his potion. It wasn’t a new addition to his lovely school year but it was probably more surprising than the Tournament itself—which was that he wasn’t getting horrible grades during Potions. He wasn’t the _greatest_ of brewers, sometimes he understood the instructions enough that they came out all right, but sometimes he was too heavy handed, or they were chopped slightly unevenly—a habit he ingrained into himself whenever cooking for the Dursley’s. They never noticed the uneven food, they never had to look that close to find an excuse to punish him, so ruining their “ _perfect food,_ ” was a small “ _Dursley’s: 6; Harry: 1,_ ” that soothed the worst of his vindictive moods. It was this habit that was so small that the difference made a _difference_ when it was potions—he was vaguely aware that the ingredients had to be “ _precise,_ ” and that was what made it a five shade difference from the real thing. It’s just that he was usually at least ten shades off during a normal class period, so something was definitely wrong with Slytherin lately.

A light sheen of sweat dotted Harry’s face, dripping from the side of his face as he stared into his cauldron. He unconsciously wiped away the sweat from his face on his sleeve, the rest of the armadillo bile already dissolved in the solution, and a brilliant green bubbled from the pot after the last of the ginger roots were added. His dull eyes gleamed against the green of the potion, face tinted in an eerie light. Harry shifted under the fumes as the potion lazily simmered as he stirred it clockwise. Several, hazy and patient minutes passed by and dull eyes watched as the green turned into a highlighter yellows, making the raven-haired boy mentally grimace as he remember those yellow colored markers from primary school, thinking that it would taste a lot like those fuming chemicals.

Harry sat there, looking confusedly at the highlighter colored phial in his hand as if it was a new muggle invention he didn’t know the in’s and out’s about yet. Even though he was muggle-raised it wasn’t like he could ever get his hands on something even as something small as a toy. He could only find out by watching Dudley play around with a soon-to-be-broken contraption, and that was limited to his summers now, fortunately. He shook the putrid smelling sludge idly in his hands before gathering himself and walking towards the front of the classroom, pointedly ignoring the gaze boring into his temple and the eyes following him. At this point Malfoy, Hermione, and a few others had already turned in their potions and Harry felt a muted sense of pride. It was usually hard to feel much for this class, he didn’t particularly hate potions itself, but Snape made that _very_ hard. He didn’t care much for his grades, even though a tiny, deep forgotten voice from his childhood told him that he should immediately start catching up to his more _knowledgeable_ year-mates.

Harry’s hands were cold when he quietly set the phial on the ebony colored desk, and started to walk back in relative silence when a _”Stop, Potter,”_ stopped him in his tracks.

“Yes?” he asked coldly, turning around and lifting his head to face his professor. The soft clicking sound of stirring wands and the sharp clunks of chopping knives slowly became subdued to watch the two un-cohesive characters come to another head. For the past few weeks since Champion night, Snape had been antagonizing him at every moment and getting no reaction in return. Any spite Harry had for Snape shriveled up and _died_ , not because he thinks Snape is a goody-two-shoes, but because mostly everything Harry felt shriveled up and died. He didn’t particularly care that he was losing points for Gryffindor, or that he was attracting more and more of his House mates’ ire, and more and more of his schoolmates dislike, nor the contempt the Durmstrangs and Beauxbatons have for him. But there was a lazy pit of anger thrumming beneath his skin, and he didn’t want any of his erratic impulsiveness to act on it from a measly insult from his professor.

The black-eyed man narrowed his eyes. “15 points from Gryffindor for cheek and skimping out on a potion ingredient,” he said sneering, his words causing Harry to frown slightly before looking at the board again, before nodding slowly and turning back to his desk. He supposed that he forgot the essence of daisyroot was missed through the blurriness of his glasses, but he couldn’t be sure. He gathered his potions kit, placing the tools inside and then shoving the rest inside his messenger bag, not wanting to be placed under Hermione’s disapproving gaze and Ron’s jealous glare—how he’s _still_ jealous, Harry doesn’t know.

***

He’s become more observant.

A week into the schoolwide operation, “ _Isolate Harry Potter_ ,” Harry knew that ignoring the Great Hall wasn’t helping the situation at all, not when it wasn’t hard for Ron to spread those rumors about him to other House mates when his toughest customers were their dorm mates, who knew him more intimately besides either Ron and Hermione, and Harry knows _just how much they know him_. Rumors spread like wildfire across the whispers, the Gryffindors telling siblings and friends in other Houses before it didn’t take to long for the newest gossip about him to catch. _”Harry Potter’s a **tranny** , and everyone knows it after Champions night,” “Haha, did you hear? Harriet Potter’s not coming to lunch, what a **pussy** ,” “What a **cunt** , she’s a lying cheater, always known it,”_

_“Harriet!” a faceless upper year in front of him called from down the hall. Harry ignored him, feeling an iciness in his veins as he was reminded of that blasted name, shouldering past the blue-trimmed wizard, to be shoved harshly to the ground. “Harriet. That’s your name, yeah? Is that your **real** name, or are you a butch? Come on, be a nice little bint and let me check...”_

He snapped.

He sent the Ravenclaw the infirmary, and can’t say that he regretted it aside from aiding in his rumors and that he’s a _“violent and deranged cunt who’d snap at a nice compliment,”_ or _“a lunatic who’d hex you no matter what, **so don’t talk to him** ,”_ and the trip to Professor McGonagall’s office, which had been emotionally stressing.

It was the only time he snapped, but that didn’t make coping with his situation any easier. If anything, lashing out made it worse. It only reminded him of his emotions and that one incident wasn’t going to be the last.

So after the first week, he returned to the Great Hall, even if he was one seam away from breaking apart or hexing anyone in a three meter radius of himself. It only made him that much more determined to keep himself glued together, and his impulsiveness was reliable like that, a trait he didn’t recognize until this year and only because of its potency. If he cared to admit it, he still had a bit of his pride left intact so maybe that’s another reason he told himself he could reveal himself to the public, like some top secret celebrity hiding from the paparazzi. He saw something like that on the telly at the Dursley’s.

He was glad though that they treated him like some infectious “ _Potter_ ,” disease— _”Don’t want to catch Potter’s **poof** ,”_ so eating in the dining hall only consisted of Ron’s cruel friendship baiting as a daily occurrence, so when he said he had _time_ during whatever meal of the day he was eating, he meant it. He wasn’t awfully hungry, and a month of recovery from the Dursley’s wasn’t enough to impact his less-than-healthy appetite.

He started observing his House mates—the upper years and lower years that never seemed to exist until then, year mates he never knew existed and the only people he knew younger than him was limited to Ginny and Colin, who didn’t seem keen to talk to him that much. Ginny looked at him as if she were rethinking her life choices, and Colin looked torn between supporting his childhood idol and running away from the supposedly evil Heir of Slytherin slash violent bint—as the dredged up rumors now say. Harry was bit peeved to realize that he barely knew who most of his house were, but didn’t think much of it since the lower years and upper years never mingled and he was a stark middle between them.

But as much as he observed his House mates, he observed many others.

And they weren’t very positive.

From the moment he stepped out of Madam Malkins that fateful day, he never had a good opinion of Slytherin and that opinion worsened once he met Ron and became friends with Hermione, since by extension she became a target by Malfoy and his croonies, and saw Slytherin as a whole was a united front but never seemed to ask himself _why_. He knew that Slytherin wasn’t terribly well-liked but he wished it didn’t take a whole school falling-out to realize Slytherins weren’t always _Slytherins_.

_Harry’s head shot up when alarmed murmurs rippled through the Great Hall, the metal clinking and chatter that remained a constant slowed to make room for the sound of stifled sobs, a sound familiar to his own ears but had a younger, more feminine tone to it. He found the source at Slytherin table, where a young girl was holding a letter with shaking hands, red-rimmed eyes blown wide and face blanched in shock, unconsciously seeking the comfort in a girl sitting next to her, whose face was set and serious. As quick as the situation happened, Slytherin closed its ranks, the ones that had a rare friend in another house immediately retreated to the table and it was clear to Harry that they were protecting the girl from prying eyes. Slytherin was tense for the rest of the day, and didn’t relax their united front until the girl came back from her parents funeral._

_She was a muggleborn._

_And had comfort from Astoria Greengrass, one of the **oldest** pureblood families, and Harry had never felt so jealous before._

_Because Harry **knew** that Slytherins wouldn’t let go of whatever blood purity beliefs they held, no matter what. But even **if** they believed they should massacre muggles and have a grand ole’ time, they **still protected their own**._

_Not even Gryffindor has done that much for him._

So, besides rethinking his previously more objective opinions, Harry had another reason to... _observe_ (— _cough, cough, silently stalk*_ ) Slytherin.

They were acting... _weird_. Not even _suspiciously_ so.

It wasn’t even like they were silently planning on how to murder him for his unplanned transgression this year—he’d _know_ that, they were just acting bloody insane! “Accidental” ingredients stopped to a bare minimum during Potions (a few “extras” here and there that only affect his potion by a two shade difference added with his own incompetency), the horrid comments about Hagrid toned down to insults about his teaching capabilities during Care of Magical Creatures (he hopes it’s only during his own class because it’d actually be terrifying if it _wasn’t_ ), and was he dreaming about the sudden exploding amount of Slytherin vs. Gryffindor rivalry? Against any Gryffindor who _wasn’t_ him?

He didn’t understand.

He never really understood things these days.

***

Harry was finishing up his treacle tart when a mousy haired, brown eyed first year walked hesitantly up to him. There was a certain _space_ between him and the rest of his table, noting the very obvious space around him. No one sat beside him or next to him, and as the rumors keep cycling around it seems that most people are scared to even look in his _direction_ , scared they’d be next on Harry Potter’s supposedly long list of victims. It wasn’t hard to have a quiet, gutting meal every time his...friends ignored him or glanced at him with thinly veiled dislike. He didn’t know when their feelings formed into such, and couldn’t help but thinking that if he were in Slytherin, they’d be publicly celebrating and cut down anyone who dared to say otherwise, but mentally grimaced at the thought of him wearing Slytherin colors. He didn’t think he’d be able to dissociate the color green with Malfoy and his croonies, but if the effects of their House stroke never dissipated, it wouldn’t take long for Harry to be more indifferent towards him than anything. It’s been about three weeks since Champions night and he didn’t think the Slytherins could keep this up for long. 

He turned to the meak 11 year-old, taking in the red and gold tie and the parchment in his hands before waiting for the kid to speak.

“Thi-This is for y-you from Profess-er Mc-Gonagall,” the boy stuttered his way through his words and Harry wryly wondered if the name Harry Potter was ever meant to be feared.

Harry slowly nodded towards the boy, reaching out a hand to take the parchment and uttered a quiet “thank you,” that caused the boy to shriek and run away. Harry could already see the next one in the rumor mill— _”Harry Potter bullies 1st year Gryffindor right straight in the Great Hall!”_ It wouldn’t matter that most of the school could’ve witnessed the impossibly short exchange to prove the claim wrong, everyone just wanted to smear his “good name,” no matter how much he wanted it or not.

The hallways were deserted as his feet clacked against the worn stone beneath his feet. The warm, dusty smell of the corridors that remained a constant in his life when laughingly the only other constant that has remained was the yearly happenstance incidents that involve him. The portraits lining the walls looked at him curiously, knowing about the gossip rushing at a tide during the school year, but just about not wanting to speak with him. The November air was crisp but the chilliness never reached far inside the castle, and Harry could feel the rolling warmth coming from the kitchens.

“Bugger off! I’ll _hex_ you if you don’t!”

Harry heard a prideful voice call out from around the corner, but he could hear the slight waver in their voice, and it seemed that others could too because he could hear cruel voices laugh mockingly. He heard a yelp and a cry as a thud echoed throughout the empty hall, and Harry dashed down the hallway, _those Slytherins better not have broken their track record—_

If Harry felt any surprise, he didn’t show it, but he snapped out his wand and pointedly glared at the three Hufflepuff bullies, who made Harry inwardly aghast that he found actual Crabbe and Goyle look alikes. He shot a glance to the floor, where two second year Slytherins were rising from the ground, one of them calm and blank faced while pulling up the positively snooty looking one, too proud to show the slight fear they have.

“Bugger off, like he said,” Harry said monotonously, dull eyes narrowing as he tried to draw himself up. He’s pretty sure his danger-factor has considerably lowered, excluding the viciousness he’s said to have, taking in the fact he didn’t feel very Gryffindor at the moment, hand clamming around his holly wand as his heart threatened to break out of his ribcage. He still felt shatteringly unstable, but it was more as if the cracks in the mirror was _waiting_ for the right moment to shudder apart. There were still times where he cried at night, whether because of nightmares or the pounding ache in his chest—that alone didn’t change. But the pressure hanging on his mind never gave him the relief or closure that would usually stream out with his pain and tears. It never lessened. Harry hung by a thread that he wouldn’t know what it would take to break until it did.

One of the bullies, seemingly the leader among them, looked at him stupidly before baring his teeth in anger. “Why should I? These little _snakes_ got it the way! What do _you_ know? I saw them trying to steal from the kitchens!”

Harry...wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so instead of pondering the lengths stupidity could go, he looked back at the two Slytherins who were looking at him reproachfully, and straightened his spine, urging his dull eyes into an irate glare. “Didn’t you hear the rumors?” he waited for them to nod, and even then Harry was sure they didn’t really comprehend what they meant. “They’re true, you know. You should back off, I’ve got them because they stole Potions test answers,” he growled stepping into their space, hoping to Merlin that the fifth year’s back off. The third member of their party paled when he mentioned the rumors and as soon as the other two lugging hulks understood what he was saying, they sped off, probably thinking that this year’s Harry Potter knows more about dueling than any of the 7th years.

Harry sighed silently, and turned around to see the two Slytherins blanched in slight fear, looking at him warily. It took a few moments to comprehend the picture in front of him to chuckle abruptly, surprising himself and the snakes. His dull eyes glimmered slightly, the corners of his lips curving only slightly upward before he leaned forward, setting his hand on the snooty one’s shoulder and whispering in his ear—

“I won’t tell Snape.”

***

His gut twisted itself into knots as he looked at his head of House, sitting in a chair in front of her desk surrounded by the neatly organized order of her office. His face was blank as he stared back into the unreadable eyes of the older woman. Moments passed in silence as he let her study him, passively sitting in the chair as memories of her unwillingness to help him flashed in front of his eyes. When he was chosen, similarly to Hermione, Professor McGonagall refused to help him because of his own “involvement” in him being chosen. He’d gone to her after Professor Dumbledore strangely guided Harry to a _”You have to compete, Harry, you are bound to the tournament now,”_ conclusion. He was strange and both of them contradicted the other while both refusing him in some way. He’s gotten away with missing a few meetings Dumbledore had called him to with a few excuses, but Harry knew that it wouldn’t be long before the old man found a way to drag him up to his office. Harry didn’t really want to deflect the Headmaster this way, but he really, _really_ didn’t want to see him, not after his curt and almost dismissive responses to him that night.

“Harry,” Professor Mcgonagall abruptly started, causing him to focus back on her. “Are you alright?” 

The question was so blunt that Harry was momentarily stunned before his mouth twitched, forcing his mouth into a smile that couldn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” Harry said evenly, hoping that the dread in his gut was only superficial. She sighed before prompting again.

“Are you sure? You’re grades are _slipping_ , Harry,”

Something coiled tight in his gut as his eyes burned fiercely, and Harry could only reel them in from the practice he’s had from the past week. He gritted his teeth, silently seething about how weak and vulnerable he’s been, but he can’t do anything about it.

_She only called me here because my grades are slipping. She’s not worried, and if she was she would’ve called me before._

“Yeah, I’m just...overwhelmed,” he said through his teeth. “It’s hard to focus, and I’ve been studying offensive and defensive spells for the tournament,” 

_A lie, but I should be doing that._

She sighed, “Harry, _overwhelmed_? It’s been three weeks, and the tournament is in only a month. Is there anything else you need to tell me? _Anything_?”

Harry swallowed, eyes boring into the wrinkles mapping her face because he was _shocked_ and felt as if he was going to collapse. He couldn’t believe that she was still _adamant_ that he had a hand in the Champion choosing. He’s not transgender! That isn’t something he would’ve hid, and even then, how would he have gotten past the Age Line? If not that, does she want him to admit his deceiving the Chalice? His hands shook, feeling small in the professors organized office and wanted to curl into himself. His vision tunneled, and heart thudded loudly in his ears.

“No, Professor,” he said hoarsely. “It’s as I said.”

Her lips thinned. “I see. Mr. Potter, please work on getting your grades back up to your usual standard.” she said crisply, her words jerking Harry as if he was hit. He sharply stood up, walking out of the office and closing the door softly behind him before barreling down the hallways. His mind was in a daze and just couldn’t help his own self-deprecating feelings rising up as the people close to him openly showed their dislike. 

Fear spiked his stomach when he felt a large meaty hand snatch the collar of his robes, pulling him back roughly as he stumbled over his own feet, his balance off kilter as he frantically wondered if Uncle Vernon followed him all the way to Hogwarts to force him back to his cupboard. When Harry finally found his bearings, it was when he landed painfully onto the stone ground, random unknown objects digging into his back when he recognized the dusty boxes of a broom closet and two of the three looming hulks from earlier. He stared dazedly into those faces and _recognized_ that look, that resentful expression that he was subject to for most of his childhood.

When the first meaty fist flew, he didn’t fight back. All he could see was a shock of red hair turning down a corridor, replaying over and over in front of his eyes.

Two lone tears slipped past his eyes but he didn’t fight back even when the pain, aching purpling bruises over his skin became too much.

He could handle this much. He’s had worse before.

*


End file.
